


Greg Lestrade, the surface of the sun and other hot things

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Arizona - Freeform, Don't copy to another site, Fancy Seeing You Here, M/M, Tourism, Vacation, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:13:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: Mycroft Holmes is in Hell.... Purgatory at the very least. Until an unexpected ally arrives to turn up the heat.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 66
Kudos: 125
Collections: Rupert Graves Birthday Collection 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheRedheadinQuestion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedheadinQuestion/gifts).



> This thing is a gift for the darling Darth Redhead, who bid on my hubris-fueled second offering in the RG auction.

The heat was incredible. The grip of the worst heatwave in London history was nothing compared to this. The state was surely on fire, the region clearly febrile. And it was, as numerous novelty shirts had boasted, a _dry_ heat. Nothing like the treks to Borneo and diplomatic deviations along the Amazon river basin; those had been living saunas, steaming him alive like a clam. This felt like baking in an oven, not a lick of humidity, the painted lines on the asphalt making him feel like a vegetable roasting on a grill.

He hated it.

The linen 2 piece and Panama hat were his concessions to the miserable weather, as Anthea knew it would have been a form of torture for him to be in .... _shorts._ (He manfully suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the mere thought of his pale stick-like lower extremities flashing in the sunlight like the beacons of Gondor.) And now his presence in this miring purgatory in the American Southwest was apparently not even needed \- though he had not been informed of this until _after_ the colossal waste of his time being flown out and checking into his hotel (nice as it was by Mycroft's standards), and now it was too late to book an immediate return home.

He’d been scheduled for a week; 2 days down but he was still stuck here for three. More. Bloody. Days. 72 interminable hours further in purgatory, the earliest a flight could be secured to take him back to the gritty embrace of the city he loved.

If not for an extreme susceptibility to cabin fever when work was not on hand, he would be spending the duration in his room, submerged in a tub of ice water like some deep-sea creature, sampling whatever passed for a delicacy on the room service menu, watching sketchy daytime programs and renting films he was usually too busy to see in cinemas.

He had forced himself down to the same waterside cafe he’d sourced for lunch the day previous for an early dinner, and aside from the people watching, the only mark in the town's favor so far was that the lake caused by the local river smelled better than the Thames. He was attempting to decide between two semi-appealing options on the menu - provided his salad was not delivered swimming in some creamy bottled sauce and his food was properly cooked. Despite the unlikelihood that yesterday's pleasant experience had been a mere one-off, Salmonella and e.Coli were never desired garnishes no matter where one was in the world.

 _Even my options for libation are limited_ , he lamented as he sipped his cool filtered water with lemon. (Ice would have been lovely but one could never trust unfamiliar ice machines; he'd seen far too many reports from Health & Safety about bacteria-riddled slime to **ever** put his faith in the unknown.) He did not imbibe carbonated beverages, the lemonade was from a mix, the in-house microbrewery was wasted on him, a sugary cocktail would be a waste of calories even if he could trust the cleanliness of the blender, and the heathens here drank iced tea - _iced tea!_ He would succumb to dehydration and transform into an albino raisin before he quenched his thirst with such blasphemy.

And the worst transgression of all - so egregious it hardly bore thinking of, let alone _mention_ -

"Mycroft?"

He was hallucinating. The heat had broiled his brains and now he was hearing things. Specifically, the voice that was a featured layer in the soundtrack of his most erotic and secret fantasies, which usually contained the man who was currently standing before him like a glistening mirage. Because there was no way Gregory Lestrade was actually here... in Arizona... holding a sweating novelty mug with a purple crazy straw, looking like sugar-glazed sex in aviators, blue and grey boardshorts, and a black tank under an unbuttoned shirt splashed in a design of motorbikes. Looking happy to see him over the tops of his lenses. The sight of his bare feet in black Adidas sandals almost ruptured Mycroft's poor gelatinous grey cells.

Ah well. At least the universe had granted him the small kindness of making the object of his affection the herald of his madness.

“Mycroft?” The voice now sounded uncertain, a tad worried. “Mr. Holmes? You okay?”

“Of course, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft replied in a carefully pitched tone. “I’m merely wondering if I should utilise my mobile to make it appear I’m on the phone rather than having a conversation with a figment of my imagination. In public.”

A few moments of silence reigned before the hallucination cautiously arched a brow and laid a hand on his arm - _solid and warm, a bit damp from the condensation,_ he noted as the moisture instantly seeped through his sleeve - and spoke. “Mycroft… I’m real.” 

Oh.

_Ohhh. Oh no._

The man’s grin was unholy. “Though I’m _fascinated_ to hear why you think I’m not.”

“I think... if I’m to explain that, you might wish to join me,” Mycroft said, indicating the empty chair opposite him. “If you please.”

The hand that had only recently vacated the elder Holmes’ sphere scruffed against the silvered locks at Lestrade’s nape as his head tipped to one side, the edge of his lower lip distractingly caught between his teeth. “I’d love to, but… m’not exactly dressed for it. I know it’s a tourist town, but they’d toss my chancer arse clean out of a place like this.”

“They wouldn’t dare do any such thing,” Mycroft argued, catching a server’s eye and noting with concealed amusement the way the university student with a passion for Russian literature fairly scampered to his table. His gratuity the day before had apparently been notorious. “My…" _~~darling~~ ~~future husband~~ ~~cherished resident of my most secret heart~~_ ... "friend will be joining me for dinner. If you’d be so kind as to fetch him through, and bring an extra place setting.” The waiter took one look at Greg’s attire, a few tiers down from his own uniform, then back at Mycroft, instantly pinning on a smile.

“Of course, Mr. Holmes. Right away.” To Greg, he merely gestured at the entrance with a polite, “And if sir will just meet me at the hostess stand.”

“Ta, mate. Be right there…” Greg dropped a wink in Mycroft’s direction before sauntering towards the door, allowing his dining companion a spectacular view of the untossable backside in question.

The food was delicious, and all the better for being shared: a gorgeous salad with grilled chicken, toasted almonds, red onion and citrus watermelon cubes to start; Mycroft’s red pepper penne with 4 types of seafood on it which paired surprisingly well with Greg’s wood fired rainbow trout topped with crab and shrimp; a mini-flight of the seasonal microbrews, Mycroft’s brows rising in pleasant astonishment at how delightful he found the spiced peach cider and lemon shandy with blueberries, Greg preferring the black-as-sin stout and a bold rich red that caught the sunlight in its amber hold. The conversation flowed from topic to topic, never strained or stilted - the thumbnail sketch of Mycroft’s aborted work trip, Greg discovering an offshoot of American cousins thanks to researching family on Ancestry.com; Sherlock’s latest insanity; books Mycroft had read; movies they’d been meaning to see.

They lingered over a dessert assortment, Mycroft convinced he couldn’t fit another bite - and then Greg would hold up a forkful of fruit tart or a spoonful of a decadent chocolate custard with a playful smile and he’d find the space for it by lacking the heart to turn the silver-haired god down.

The golden hour bled into twilight, and their hands met over the eventual bill.

Mycroft’s mouth was already opening to protest when Greg turned his palm up and laced their fingers together. “You’re gonna let me get this… and if it soothes your sensibilities, you can put breakfast on your room service bill in the morning.”

Oh?

_Ohhhh…_

As they walked back to Mycroft’s hotel, fingers still comfortably tangled, Greg took them to the bridge, declaring it the only appropriate spot for the first kiss between Brits in the States.

They didn’t get up to much more that night - Greg content to get his hands on those miles of pale skin and secret freckles, Mycroft a bit too mind-blown at the gorgeous man soothing his touch starvation and feeding his long harbored fantasies. They cuddled for cuddling’s sake, for the sheer tactile pleasure of another’s skin against one’s own, the echoing thump-thump of heartbeats relaying Morse code messages, fingers transcribing sentimental nonsense across the page of a back or the margin of a thigh.

It was the best night’s sleep either had had in quite a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys have adventures... besides falling in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now the [epic comic announcer voice] thrilling conclusion!

In the morning, following a leisurely breakfast in bed (served with rather good coffee and a healthy side of kisses) and a single question about spending more time together that really only had one answer, Greg tapped furiously on his phone for a solid 15 minutes before disappearing with a promise to come back in an hour and a gentle order to 'dress comfy.'

(Of course, what could be termed 'comfortable' attire and what Mycroft would actually _feel_ comfortable in were things separated by a small lightyear, but needs must when a silver-tongued devil with hair to match was behind the wheel.)

When he returned 54 minutes later, Mycroft saw his cardkey returned and his packed bags slung in the boot of a rental car - a clean, sleek vehicle with impressive horsepower, Bluetooth compatible sound system, ice-cold air conditioning, and a cooler of snacks and bottled drinks in the backseat. Apparently his new paramour had _plans_ for them.

At least the dark khakis and royal blue short sleeve buttondown he'd selected weren't woefully out of place, and the colors went well with Greg's fitted cargos, grey Vans and an impossibly soft baby blue tee featuring the Captain America shield that Mycroft managed to avoid nuzzling like a kitten.... at least until they'd cleared the city limit. 

Arriving in the Valley in time for lunch at a delicious bistro (the sort of quaint place locals always swear by and rarely tell outsiders about) Greg left the car and walked them around the corner to a nondescript white building, a barely suppressed grin playing around the edges of his mouth.

An attendant named Tamsin (if the plastic badge on her blue polo was factual) appeared at the counter at the chime of the small antique bell, brows a sine wave of pleasant curiosity. 

“Lestrade, 1:30.”

The quiet click of computer keys accompanied the tick of the elaborate open-gear clock behind her as Mycroft tried to remind himself that this was the man who had shielded his baby brother from scorn, physically dragged Sherlock and his jumper-wearing friend out of more than one dangerous situation, and personally made Mycroft’s heart and toes curl more than the genetic floof he’d been persuaded to leave unsuppressed this morning. The fact that the building was unmarked, and the place strangely quiet indicating soundproofed rooms, and the logo of a clockwork brain in a box resided above the question ‘Can You Puzzle It Out?’ did not mean Greg had brought him to some illicit testing facility. 

There was a Starbucks across the street, for heaven’s sake.

“Ah, yes. I have 2 for Down the Rabbit Hole, with a contingent reservation for the Porter House at 3.” A tablet was slid across the countertop. “If you’ll just sign these waivers, I can take you back and get you set up.”

_That… in no way answered any questions formed nor alleviated any niggling doubts._

Mycroft was on the verge of protest (or panicked flight) when Greg reached out, tugged him close and began rubbing a small circle in the hollow of his lower back as he spoke low and soft.

“Don’t freak out. S’called an escape room - puzzles and-and riddles and such. You have an hour to find clues and solve the problem and figure a way out. You’re not really locked in; you can call a stop whenever you need.” In the lingering silence Greg slumped a bit, a sigh slipping out as his forehead came to rest on Mycroft’s shoulder. “M’sorry, gorgeous. I should’ve asked first if you’d be… Just thought it’d be fun - DI and a Holmes locked in a room matching wits… Was trying to surprise you.” 

Tamsin was watching them with rapt attention from under her lashes as she feigned undue interest in the boilerplate release forms on her screen. Mycroft’s heart didn’t have a clue what to do - flutter like a happy sparrow at the idea that Greg had picked something so… unexpectedly thoughtful or sink like a shot pigeon at the realisation he was ruining the moment with each one that passed. In the time it took him to decide, Greg stopped touching him, straightened away and spoke again, a sort of painful determination in his now social tone.

“There’s a museum about 15 minutes from here; you’ll like that better.” He raised a hand towards Tamsin as he stepped carefully around Mycroft, heading for the door - before the elder Holmes caught his shoulder and spun him into a soft embrace.

“Gregory,” he murmured in one beautifully shaped ear, low and a little breathless. “This is… quite possibly the most thoughtful thing anyone has attempted to do for me since I was 10 years of age.” Greg’s hands settled around his waist in a tremulous circle. “It is brilliant and sweet, and wholly unique in that you think I might be able to live up to the frivolous gravity implied in a place such as this.” Greg huffed a laugh that sounded curiously damp as Mycroft pulled back to look at him. “But I’d… I’d like to try.”

Greg’s eyes lit from within, candlelight through superb whiskey. “Well then, gorgeous.” A tiny kiss was placed on the tip of Mycroft’s nose that threatened the efficacy of his mental faculties. “Let’s go.” They turned as one toward a practically vibrating Tamsin, who stowed the tablet once they’d signed and led them to a green door down the hall. If the instructions were delivered with a glowing grin, no one commented.

The door closed, the atmosphere settled, and the timer began. They quickly devised the strategy of Greg finding a thing and Mycroft determining its function, working their way through a non-copyright infringing version of the Lewis Carroll tale at impressive speed. Mycroft navigated through a map of the hedge maze found on Mr. Rabbit’s wall while Greg inputted the turns onto a directional lock (which he cleverly quipped was a ‘speed dial’) to open a trunk of clues. Wooden ‘books’ placed on a shelf in the correct order released a latch, revealing a small room painted with letters that tied to numbers by long twisting ribbons - a substitution cipher that opened a letter lock. It was proving **marvelous** fun. By the time Mycroft was reordering the Mad Hatter’s place setting (thereby letting the dormouse pop out of the teapot with the key) they’d set a record for solve time.

The next room was already prepared, and Mycroft practically dragged his laughing love into the mystery of a cattle baron’s murder at his estate. Greg noticed the encyclopedias on the bookshelf wallpaper, and realised a riddle with a math problem involved the volume numbers between certain words. Mycroft’s long limbs proved useful for holding 2 switches simultaneously to illuminate spots on a map, over which Greg ‘flew’ a small plane according to the itinerary they had decoded; as the plane ‘landed’ there was a small _thunk_ as the magnet on the plane’s underside had unlocked the final puzzle. As she walked them to the lobby, Tamsin told them with awed glee that the Porter House room was actually meant for groups of 4, making their victory all the more impressive.

As Mycroft allowed her to snap a pic of them holding humorous speech bubble cutouts for the Victors’ Village on the company website, he suspected this might become a regular means of escape - perhaps even a date night idea - once they were back home.

His arm was draped across Greg’s shoulders, and Greg’s free hand could be spotted in the plausibly deniable real estate of his torso; Greg’s grin was luminous while his own more cautious smile still held noticeable warmth. He slipped Tamsin a secured email address for a copy of the photo, already imagining it gracing the desktop of his home computer.

Dinner was a quiet affair at a cozy backyard cafe, the arbor over the tables threaded with ropes of fairy lights and the food delicious in its simplicity. They lingered over tea, and caught the end of a classic film being projected on the side of a building downtown as they walked back to the car. They brushed their teeth in unpracticed harmony, and readied for bed with the synchronized ease usually reserved for relationships measured in years rather than hours. They fell asleep to a gentle playlist on Greg’s mobile, Mycroft happily the big spoon, having discovered quite by accident that the little hollow behind Greg’s ear was a perfect fit for his nose.

They compromised on breakfast, eating omelette wraps in the parking lot to soothe Mycroft's worry of distracted driving and potential spillage and sipping their smoothies as they headed north to satisfy Greg's desire to make time, the miles flying as they listened to a trivia podcast that had them laughing so hard they could barely get the answers out. The air when they arrived was _blissful_ \- cool and thin and fresh, the sky a brilliant blue, the surrounding trees a verdurous ocean. The carpark at Lowell Observatory was mercifully uncrowded, and Greg didn’t have a word to say on the subject when Mycroft produced a membership card for an educational enthusiast’s club that entitled them to discounted admission. They skimmed a few exhibits, listened to a brief yet humorous lecture on tardigrades, and held hands as they walked through the solar system, pausing to wish Pluto a sentimental ‘revolve in peace’ before deciding to skip the far reaches of the universe in favor of lunch.

A quiet downtown spot called Mountain Oasis was the ginger's choice, which saw Greg enjoying hummus fries and piri piri prawns with spicy slaw while Mycroft indulged in a portobello melt with a rocket salad and a cup of coffee so large he felt a twinge of Wonderland nostalgia.

They kept the meal from resting too heavy by meandering the streets and stopping anywhere that took their fancy - a home goods store selling whimsical handmade soaps that they bought far too many of, both to keep and give as gifts; a candy kitchen with concoctions like lavender mints and Oreos dipped in tiger butter and dozens of flavored truffles; a tea shop that Mycroft almost cried tears of joy over, catching their breath as they enjoyed dragon pearl tea and a chilled hibiscus blend; a secondhand ‘entertainment exchange’ where Greg found a card game he liked and a decent copy of an EP he'd owned as a teenager and Mycroft acquired a hardcover of a childhood favourite and a small puzzle box.

They meant to only nap before dinner, but the snuggled tangle they fell into on the remarkably comfortable mattress coupled with the pleasant exhaustion of the marathon days found them waking in the dark at half 8, stomachs rumbling against full bladders. Despite Greg’s offer to try the locally recommended Italian place by the university campus or just take them for sushi, Mycroft settled him in the car and steered them to the Beaver Street Brewery with a fond smile. A beer sampler dubbed the 'Beaver's Flight', fresh fluffy sourdough pretzels with a variety of dipping sauces for a starter, a chopped salad to share, a Thai stew with mussels in a spiced coconut milk for Mycroft, a small pizza with bacon, spinach and grapes of all things drizzled in balsamic reduction for Greg. Dessert to go.

After, comfortably full but still keyed after their late snooze, Greg drove them halfway up a mountain road to a secluded overlook, Mycroft indulging the butterflies in his belly with all the breathless anticipation of any schoolgirl at a lover’s lane. A few thick towels spread over the hood and windscreen found them comfortably stargazing, Greg’s head on his shoulder while they traded salted caramel cheesecake bites with pretzel crust and made wishes on shooting stars and let themselves feel small. By the time the conversation began turning to puffs, they had been in the car twice - once to make out in the backseat like teenagers… until things began to get too heated for the lack of supplies, once to cuddle in the front seat as they whispered secrets and each allowed small fantasies involving variant forms of vehicular sex to run in the background of their minds. Yet instead of heading back to the hotel, Greg squinted at the time on his mobile ( _far into the wee small hours,_ Mycroft idly noted) and hustled them into the car with a determined gleam Mycroft would swear was visible in the darkness.

At an all-night station, he topped up the tank while Mycroft emptied his, and they drove. The creeping fingers of dawn were just stealing over the horizon when Mycroft noted the little guard shack, the sign lit by the headlights welcoming them to the Grand Canyon.

_What on earth…?_

Greg drove on, bypassing stop after stop (mostly the ones with other people, though a few devoid of other humans) but occasionally pausing long enough for Mycroft to lose his breath in a rush at the sight of the fog-filled canyon, the misty cloud painted with soft pastels and looking for all the world like a natural witch’s cauldron. There were just a few wispy threads left by the time the sky was fully a pale yellow, and only then did Greg pull in to an unoccupied turnout and cut the engine. Without a word, he grabbed 2 pairs of sunglasses, then Mycroft’s hand as he opened the passenger door, and walked them a yard shy of the foolishly low ‘guard rail’ that seemed more a polite suggestion than any sort of efficient barrier.

The light continued to intensify as Mother Nature fiddled with the dimmer switch, and the words were just on the tip of the politician’s tongue - when Greg’s fingers tightened around his own with a whispered " _ **now.**_ "

Somewhere a gentle guitar riff was starting and the Beatles were singing in accompaniment to this very moment. It was like the opening scene of the Lion King. The great curve began to rise - first a flash of pure light, then the blood red of a gemstone, morphing to fiery orange before resolving into its final evolution as it cleared the far rim. It was beautiful. Something clean and new unfurled in the cave of his soul and responded to the natural call; he thought he might cry.

It was a moment he would never forget until his last exhalation upon the earth.

Greg turned to him, brown eyes suspiciously liquid behind the UV tint, lips parted to say... something which would have to remain a mystery as Mycroft cupped his face in slightly trembling hands and kissed him in the virgin light.

Over breakfast and espresso at the Edge of the World, they discussed how best to spend their final day; Greg wanted Mycroft to have more input, despite the redhead's assertions that Greg's charming spontaneity and excellent detective skills had worked out spectacularly well thus far.

"Could just keep heading north - cross the state line, make a wish at Hoover Dam, do a whirlwind of Vegas."

Mycroft paused in his elegant spreading of jam on a roll to level an eyebrow at his darling. "Sin City holds little appeal for me, Gregory; I get quite enough of that at home, and rather thought you would have as well."

"Fair point," Greg conceded around a mouthful of _huevos rancheros,_ slipping into pensive mastication while his brain chewed on alternatives. "Dunno if you're into aliens at all but we can run up to Rachel… have a drive through the desert, see the testing grounds and Bomb City."

He hid a smirk behind his coffee at the thought of intelligent life elsewhere given the dearth that roamed the planet, not wishing to damper Greg's enthusiasm. "I do prefer quietude, darling, but… perhaps something a bit more…" _'Us'_ seemed the only fitting end to the sentence. Greg's eyes roaming his features as though he could see the unspoken word tattooed there made Mycroft's heart skip a beat.

"Okay. How's this? We work our way down, stop anywhere that catches our eye."

"Though it appears you already have _some_ destination in mind," Mycroft surmised.

The loll of his head like a playful puppy, the teeth briefly punctuating his lower lip, the unholy gleam in those divine eyes… _Gotcha_ , Mycroft's brain supplied despite a sudden drop in his blood pressure.

"There's a place, down the bottom of the state, in Yuma. S'called the Darth Redhead. Practically **screams** 'Mycroft (minor position in the British Government, my arse) Holmes'."

The eyebrow made an encore. "Discounting for a moment whatever it is you believe my job actually entails… would you care to elaborate on your reasoning?"

" _Myc._ " The diminutive was a caress, despite the incredulous half-groan through which it was delivered. "Diabolical ginger, working for the Empire. For the sign alone… we can get a snap of you in front of it; you can pop it in a frame for the Queen's birthday.”

 _You utterly incorrigible rogue._ Mycroft barely stifled a chuckle, though he feared the mirthful twist of his lips might have given the game away - unaware as he was of the way his eyes sparkled with gleeful adoration at the man he loved. "Very well. But only if one of us is prepared to utilise our lockpicking skills to access the Bridge to Nowhere…"

Greg’s beaming smile rivaled the brilliant beauty of their first sunrise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's the thing. I hope you like it.
> 
> Kudos and comments eternally appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of just getting something up, I'm posting this as a 2 parter. Return in a few days for the thrilling conclusion.
> 
> In the meantime, comments and kudos feed my soul.
> 
> And in case anyone doesn't know, one of the actual London Bridges (the 4th one, iirc) resides in a town called Lake Havasu. The town founder bought it when they were refurbishing the bridge in the late 60s and had each brick numbered and shipped over. The sale (just shy of $2.5 million) included the lampposts which were made from melted-down cannons after the Battle of Waterloo. I am a massive history nerd and Anglophile; don't @ me.
> 
> This has been your Moment in History.


End file.
